


We'll Always Have Havana

by Yemi



Category: Mafia (Video Games), Mafia III - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Development, F/F, M/M, Major conflicts, POV Third Person Omniscient, Plot, Reunion, Timeskip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:35:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24299704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yemi/pseuds/Yemi
Summary: In the following years after Lincoln was finally able to take down Sal Marcano, things couldn't have been any more different.
Relationships: Connor Aldridge & John Donovan, Donolinc - Relationship, Lincoln Clay & John Donovan, Original Characters/Original Characters
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	1. Back To Work

**Author's Note:**

> I had so much fun writing this fic and I'll try to upload as often as I can!

In the following years after Lincoln was finally able to take down Sal Marcano, things couldn't have been any more different.

He decided to leave New Bordeaux afterwards, taking heed to Father James' warning and relocating all the way to Vallejo, California. He was able to get an entirely new identity thanks to one of his old army buddies who lived out west, and got a job working at Mare Island shipyard. He even cultivated a thick beard and grew out his hair a little to hide the massive scar forever imprinted on the side of his head. It somewhat worked; you had to look real closely to see it. The weather was nice, and Lincoln was managing.

It's been five years since he's seen or heard from Donovan.

Even though Sal Marcano's death was the end for Lincoln, it was simply a new beginning for Donovan. About a year after he up and went off on his own, Lincoln used one of his contacts to get a hold of his classified Senate testimony, in which he assassinated Senator Blake in cold blood. Even he couldn't believe it. The unwavering confidence of a man who knew he had nothing else to lose was strikingly apparent, and while Lincoln watched that tape, he began to feel that all-too-familiar twinge in his chest.

_[ "I want everyone in here to know that I am not finishing with you, I am starting with you!" ]_

And with that, he shot a bullet into the Senator's chest, and another point blank in the forehead for good measure. He simply walked out of the courtroom, and that was the last Lincoln would see of him.

How Donovan commanded the room, showing no signs of being intimidated, leaning back in his chair, and casually taking drags out of his cigarette caused him to become nostalgic about their time together in New Bordeaux and even as far back as Vietnam. Those eyes of his, getting wider and angrier and filling with pure determination made Lincoln remember how they would shift and morph with so much emotion. Even though Donovan was far away on the TV screen, he could still see that fire blooming and burning in his eyes, that manic energy manifesting into something powerful, something real.

But, there was a section of the tape that Lincoln would always rewind to and watch over and over again. It was the very beginning after Donovan was asked to state his name.

_[ Senator Blake, pointing to a large photo of an aged man with white-silver hair: "Mr. Donovan, do you know this individual?"_

_Donovan, casually: "Sure. That’s Sal Marcano.”_

_Senator Blake, pointing to a photo of a larger man directly below Sal Marcano’s: “And how about this man?”_

_Donovan, with clear malice in his voice: “And that’s Sal’s worthless piece of shit brother, Lou.”_

_Donovan, clearly annoyed: “Look, enough of this dog and pony bullshit. What’s your real question?”_

_Senator Blake, leaning in and resting his arms on the high desk: “Did you help Lincoln Clay murder Sal Marcano and all prominent members of his crime family?”_

_Donovan, leaning back into his chair with his arms folded: “You’re goddamn right I did.” ]_

Lincoln would never forget the blonde’s prideful aura, and he could’ve sworn Donovan stole a glance at the camera. It was as if he wanted him to see, to know that he wasn’t ashamed of what they did together in New Bordeaux. The long nights he would spend meticulously building dossiers on persons of interest, bugging multiple radio towers so he had ears all over the city, and practically living in a dirty surveillance van right outside of a dingy motel was all worth it if it meant that Lincoln could exact revenge against the man who killed the only people who ever gave a damn about him.

But soon after Marcano’s death, Donovan disappeared. 

Lincoln went to his motel and when he knocked on the door, the wrinkly hand of an old black woman moved it slightly ajar. “Can I help you?” Her voice was shaky, and she hid behind the heavy wood. He could somewhat see the room behind her: It looked completely different. He couldn’t see a massive tape recorder, files laid out everywhere, cigarette butts, and empty liquor bottles spewn on the shelves. The items were long gone and packed up, but he could still feel the shadow of Donovan’s presence.

“I’m sorry ma’am, must have the wrong room.” 

She abruptly closed the door and Lincoln stood in the middle of the parking lot. He didn’t want to think about his last moments in New Bordeaux.

Back in California, a new shipment was supposed to arrive in about an hour or so; the bossman, Lorenzo, detailed that it was important and that it should be sorted immediately. He sounded anxious. Lorenzo was an absolute hardass and hated anything (or anyone) that got in the way of him and his money. When he wasn’t yelling at Lincoln or another one of his workers, he could be seen in his office yelling on the phone and smoking a cigarette. And for a man his size, Lincoln knew his days were numbered. The coughing fits weren’t getting any better.

“What is it?” Lincoln was interested. He usually never asked, but something about his tone of voice suggested it was something worthwhile.

“Do I pay you to work or ask questions? Just get to it, Mike. It’s supposed to be here at 5PM, miss it and I cut your pay in half,” he said, his Jersey accent revealing itself.

Ah, _Mike._ Short for Michael. Rodney did a good job of getting him a new identity; it even had a nice ring to it. Michael McQueen. Coupled with the heavy onset beard and gruff attire, no one could recognize him. But, even with an apparent clean slate, Lincoln was afraid of starting over. He knew he couldn’t get too comfortable, because one day, he would have to start running again. He didn’t say anything and simply nodded. Lorenzo took that as his signal to storm out of the warehouse, coughing as he left. Lincoln took that as a sign that his break was over. 

He dusted himself off and got to work.

\-------------------------------

Somewhere in an undisclosed location, there was a man tied up in the basement of a wanted fugitive’s makeshift home. Blindfolded, gagged, and terrified, he shifted erratically in the hard metal chair that was practically bolted to the ground. He tried moving his hands but it was no use; they were strapped down to the arms of the metal frame with thick leather. To his right side, a door opened. Heavy combat boots slowly descended one by one on the creaky steps into the basement. The scrapings of a chair. The loading of a gun. The man started to shift even more now, screaming through his gag.

“Jesus Christ, do you ever shut up? I could hear you from upstairs.”

“Mmph! Mmmph!” He struggled even more. 

The soft click of a pistol stopped the man’s efforts, his labored breathing being the only sound that could be heard in the damp room. 

“You have information I need. If you don’t tell me what I want to hear,” He shot a bullet at the ground right in front of the man’s left foot. He jolted and began to whimper. “I swear to god I’ll shoot your fucking brains out.” He leaned in, merely inches away from his prisoner. He suddenly takes off his gag and blindfold, the sudden light making him squint. In front of him stood a man who had the muzzle of a handgun roughly pressed against the bottom of his chin. “Got it?”

He nodded profusely, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose to his top lip. 

Donovan had to admit that he looked very different than when he left New Bordeaux five years ago.


	2. La Pergola

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait, I wanted to make sure this chapter was really good.

Donovan studied himself in the bathroom mirror and almost didn’t recognize the man looking back at him.

The dirty blonde hair that he refused to let grow past the top of his nape now rested at his shoulders. He was noticeably thinner, probably because jumping from place to place in search of Sal Marcano's remaining associates doesn’t really allot a person much time to eat. Underneath the new appearance, he still felt the same; the only difference being that Lincoln wasn’t by his side to get involved in any of the shenanigans he was about to get into. He rested his knuckles on the counter-sink and chuckled to himself. 

It’s funny how five years can change a person. 

As soon as that second bullet struck the Senator, he knew that he was going to be on his feet for a while. He snuck around the United States, silently subduing, interrogating, and ultimately killing Marcano’s right-hand men one by one as he slowly pieced together a large scheme against the U.S. government. He felt as if there was one major puppeteer, but he just couldn’t put his finger on it. The only man that knew, however, was planning on having dinner with a lady-friend tonight at _La Pergola_ , the most expensive restaurant in Rome. And Donovan was supposed to play waiter.

Nevermind how he got there, all he needed to do was change into his uniform. 

Once again, he studied himself and glanced over at a neatly folded pile of black clothing. Slowly, he took off his wrinkled t-shirt and replaced it with a jet black button-down shirt that stopped right above his mid-thigh. He looked down at the faded denim jeans that he was able to nab from some random thrift store in Dallas and exchanged them for some sleek, black slacks. The handgun he had in denim jeans rested firmly in his hand, scarred and worn from its constant use. He quickly tucked in his shirt and squeezed himself into some walking shoes that were about a size too small. Cursing as he’s wiggling his toes around to make room, he slips a belt around his waist, pins his hair up in an unruly bun, pats himself off, and leaves the bathroom, the door squeaking loudly as he pushed it open. He didn’t bother taking his old clothes, he figured he would just get more along the way; he was in Italy after all. An extra white apron was wrapped firmly around his hips. The handgun was barely noticeable.

Phillip Barnes was a _very_ good friend of Sal Marcano. In many of the public photographs they had together, they could be seen laughing, smoking cigars, and drinking the finest moonshine New Bordeaux could offer. They went to casinos, nightclubs, pubs, anywhere where they could blow off some steam and talk business. After he helped Lincoln kill Marcano and his family, Donovan decided to do some digging into his contacts to see if he could add more information about him into his rather large dossier. Imagine his surprise when he saw the name Phillip Barnes, the million-dollar tycoon who conveniently skipped town as soon as he caught wind that his golfing buddy had been offed, over and over and over again. Tailing him was hard enough, a whole slew of Marcano’s scumbags refused to give him up until one of them slipped and mentioned something about an Italian bank account. That was all he needed.

\--------------------

_La Pergola_ wasn’t for the faint of cash; each person ran for about $150 just to _serve_ , not even including the meals themselves. And for good reason. Tables were lined across barriers that peered over the meandering traditional buildings, the moon in full view. The reflection of the moonlight cast shadows on the vibrant blue ocean, giving the entire restaurant the feeling of pure serenity. The warm, intimate lighting and the soft ambiance made it very easy to blend in if you didn’t want to be seen. The staff was under the strict rule to respect the privacy of anyone who ate there, and they never kept records of their patrons. Donovan scanned the large space for Barnes but saw no one that even resembled him. He walked briskly around the massive outside patio that overlooked a pool, holding a tray filled with champagne and wines. He couldn’t say he looked _too_ out of place, especially with his barely passable Italian to help him get by. As a sharply dressed woman elegantly plucked a glass of champagne off his tray like fruit, one of the waiters stopped him and told him to move to the interior. Donovan simply nodded and exchanged the tray with him and slipped through the large glass double doors.

Valentine’s Day and Donovan weren’t particularly the best of friends, but they decided to agree to a truce just for tonight. He tried to ignore it outside, but the inside made it ten times worse. Almost every table was filled with couples who decided to come out in their evening best; men in black and white suits and slicked-back hair while the women had tall heels, caked faces, and elaborate dresses. They all looked so comfortable in the other’s presence; forks and knives scraping plates along with low laughter and conversations that felt like little secrets being shared all at once made him feel… _lonely._

One of his biggest regrets was never saying goodbye to him. Lincoln was a very private person and rarely let on to how he was truly feeling, but that didn’t stop them from learning to understand each other. The late nights spent drinking whiskey and eating takeout while planning their next step in taking down Marcano was something that Donovan felt he might’ve taken for granted. Lingering stares, soft giggles, playful insults, the deep sigh that would commence once they were able to finally wrap it up for the night, and the awkward goodbye as Lincoln headed back to Sammy’s basement to sleep, Donovan fighting the urge to ask him to spend the rest of the night in his dingy motel room. A small part of him sensed Lincoln felt the same way he did. But of course, he would never admit that.

Donovan heard a female voice pierce his thoughts. “Mi scusi, potrei per favore avere un bicchiere d'acqua?” _Excuse me, may I please have a glass of water?_

“Ovviamente,” he replied. _Of course._ He quickly smiled and retreated to the kitchen and opened the massive freezer. Grabbing the large metal scoop hanging on its side, he shoveled one gallop of ice into a large pitcher. He decided to throw in some slices of lemon and filled it to the brim with water. He briskly walked out, rapidly scanning table after table for Barnes’ face. Nothing. At this point, Donovan was worried he might’ve chosen to play dress-up at the wrong restaurant. He just hoped that he would be reserved to only carry out drinks and do simple tasks, he definitely wasn’t prepared to have a full-blown conversation in Italian. As he was arriving at the woman’s table, she offered a quick thanks as he slowly filled her glass and scanned the area once more. 

Suddenly, he heard a male voice that rose louder than the symphony of chatter across the restaurant. His eyes darted towards the far line of tables that looked over the balcony into the city. A man dressed in a black and white suit laughed loudly and conversed with the female waitress that was escorting him to a private table with a straight view of Rome. A tall woman had her arm linked with his and was laughing into his shoulder, her brown hair shining in the moonlight. She wore a long emerald green dress with black stilettos and heavy jewelry; Donovan guessed she was Italian, and for the man, _definitely_ American. Only an American would draw that much attention to themselves in a foreign country. It was Barnes.

Donovan finished pouring his patron’s water and rushed over to his female coworker, who already had them seated and was getting ready to take their orders.

“C'è stato un cambiamento nello staff, sei necessario fuori. Posso prenderlo da qui,” he said while pointing to the large glass double doors. _There's been a change in staff, you're needed outside. I can take it from here._ No questions asked, she was on her way. Tonight was so hectic that he wouldn’t have been surprised if there was some truth in his lie.

“Buonasera, mi chiamo Anthony. Ci scusiamo per il cambio rapido. Con cosa posso iniziare?” _Good evening, my name is Anthony. Sorry for the quick change. What can I start you with?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please forgive me lmaoo i used google translate for the italian. also i wrote so much for chapter 2 that I had to split it up into 3 separate chapters. so expect more soon !!


End file.
